


My Circumnavigator

by SovaySovay



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Letter, Regret, apology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:57:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2289434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SovaySovay/pseuds/SovaySovay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Study in Pink. Mycroft apologizes to Sherlock. For everything. The poem is an excerpt from Magellan Street, 1974 by Maxine Kumin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Circumnavigator

_Of course you move on, my circumnavigator._

_Tonight as I cruise past your corner,_

_a light goes on in the window._

_Two shapes sit at a table._

 

When you turned thirteen, I didn’t come home to see you. I was twenty-three, smart, alive, making a name for myself as a businessman. I sent you a note, I think, but you never replied, so either you were snubbing me again or you never got it. And I left when you were eight, I called you Sherlock, and the name stuck. I remember you visited me once when I was twenty, Mother brought you to my flat. You said hello, but hung back near the door and didn’t come near me once. Mother said you were friendless, that you barely spoke to our parents. And you were only a child.

And when you turned eighteen (a significant birthday, we agree on that at least), I came home but you didn’t speak to me until the night before I left for London again. Sherlock, I went to your door to see if you were awake so I could tell you something, and you sulked. You sulked, you always sulk. You said, “Mycroft, get out,” and I did. I did, I left before the morning. I left like I did when you were eight and I was eighteen, I remembered what it was like to be that age, and I understood when you left too. Sherlock, I didn’t understand why you didn’t just come live with me when you moved out. Caring is not an advantage, caring is not an advantage. But you’re my brother.

Mother asked me once, many years ago, and then again quite recently, “When was the last time you spoke to your brother?” and this most recent time I couldn’t remember. You were my confidant when we were small, you looked up to me. Didn’t you? I can’t remember anymore, it’s been such a long time. I suppose I’ve invented the camaraderie, that I was always cold and ignored you and you were the same. It’s in our nature. Goldfish swimming in circles in a tiny bowl, and the two who could speak to each other at all refuse to because of a childish feud.

I was gaining speed and repute in the government, and you were an unknown, solving puzzles and curled up in that tiny, tiny flat. Until you were thirty-two. I was forty-two, sitting at home, with some rare spare time on my hands. I got a call from someone watching you (sorry) who told me about him. Dr John Watson. I drove to your flat, but the lights were out and you were gone. I got on the phone and directed Dr Watson to a warehouse where I asked him to keep an eye on you. I did what I could, Sherlock, to keep you safe.

Days later, I was feeling sickly nostalgic. I called a car and drove to your new flat on Baker Street. One light on at three A.M. Your window. I could see you and John sitting in the window, you talking restlessly, he taking notes on his laptop. You moved on. I drove away.

This note is to say, Sherlock, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left and I’m sorry I didn’t come back. I’m sorry you’ll never hear my apology, not because you don’t listen to me, but because I’m burning the note. You’re a child, Sherlock. You’re a child because I didn’t stick around and let you watch someone be an adult before you. You don’t know how to be grown-up. And you moved on, Sherlock. But you never moved out.


End file.
